


a thousand years of waiting

by grim_lupine



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most days it’s like Eduardo’s fighting for Mark’s attention, warring with every other thing that has a claim on Mark’s feverishly working, ten-steps-ahead-of-everyone brain—and it’s everything else that’s winning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand years of waiting

-

\--

It seems that Eduardo is always left waiting for Mark in some fashion: hands fisted in his pockets, hunched down against the cold, as Mark forgets, yet _again_ , to meet him when he said they would meet; kicking his feet against the dirt outside one of Mark’s classes, because he has a break in his schedule and maybe they can get lunch because god knows Mark doesn’t eat otherwise, and it’s okay that Mark’s staying after to argue something out for twenty minutes even when he _knows_ Eduardo’s waiting for him, and it’s okay that he’s getting smirks from people who know him and comments about “there’s Zuckerberg’s wife again”, and it’s _okay_ , because he’s taking care of Mark.

(It’s not really okay. It actually kind of sucks, but it’s what Eduardo has, so—)

Then there’s the waiting that Eduardo’s done since they first met—waiting for some kind of verbal acknowledgment that yes, Mark sees what he does for him, yes, Mark knows they’re friends, yes, he’s _important_ to Mark. He might be waiting for that the rest of his life. Mark doesn’t give reassurances much, and if he ever does, it’s never through words. Words are for cutting idiots down with vitriolic sarcasm, words are for displaying his indisputable intelligence, words are for awkwardly hitting on girls. Mark’s words are not for Eduardo.

That one _is_ okay, though, because Eduardo has seen: the half-smile on Mark’s face when Eduardo sets a sandwich down in front of his laptop, the way his eyes search out Eduardo’s within seconds of stepping into the same room, the unconscious way he pushes into Eduardo’s hand with a small sound when he passes out mid-coding and Eduardo drags him over to his bed. Mark, even asleep, knows that Eduardo is there; because where else would he be?

So there’s that. But most days it’s like Eduardo’s fighting for Mark’s attention, warring with every other thing that has a claim on Mark’s feverishly working, ten-steps-ahead-of-everyone brain—and it’s everything else that’s winning.

Except now. Except here. They start sleeping together because Eduardo spends ninety percent of his time in Mark’s personal space, and Mark is a guy and too intelligent to turn down a regular source of sex, and _Eduardo_ is too intelligent to ask for more and too stupid to save himself the future pain of watching this end, and he just _wants_ , with everything he has. He wants the lush bitten curve of Mark’s mouth, the sly spark in his eyes that is sometimes the sole display of feeling in his deadpan face. Eduardo wants Mark’s acid wit whispered against his lips, and the press of his clever fingers leaving bruises in his skin, and he wants to take Mark apart again and again and always.

Like this, Mark lying under him with his mouth a chewed-strawberry red, panting and thrusting into Eduardo’s grip, and Eduardo looks down at him and thinks, I want to make you wait for _me,_ for once. If only for once.

He knows Mark’s every sound, what it means, and he pulls away before Mark can come, watches him gasp and writhe on the bed in confusion (take him by his cock and Mark is like any other boy—even that massive brain of his needs a minute to catch up, and the moment he spends gaping at _why is your hand no longer on my cock_ is endlessly pleasing to Eduardo). “Wardo, what—” Mark says, pushing himself up on his elbows, and Eduardo only says “Shhh,” and puts his hand on his chest and shoves him back down. Mark’s arms buckle, and he goes sprawling on his back.

These are the things that Eduardo has learned: tug firmly at Mark’s curls, harder than he thinks he should, scratch at his scalp, and Mark goes absolutely boneless; grip him by the back of his neck with nails biting into his skin and he cannot help the upward stutter of his hips, looking for a touch. Shove two fingers into his mouth and he’ll suck on them like there’s no other option; and whenever Eduardo bites him just this side of too hard, Mark cries out, sounding sharp and shocked and unexpectedly young. He likes when Eduardo slides a palm down his side, his back, a full-body caress of skin. He likes when Eduardo kisses him until neither of them have any breath left in their lungs.

Taken all together, with Eduardo pulling back time and again and holding back, with Eduardo using what he _knows_ , it means Mark is left shaking, hands curled in the sheets. He looks feverish, a little like he’s about to burst out of his skin. “You—” Mark starts, and his _voice_ , fuck, it’s cracked and gone, and he has to pause and swallow and wet his lips before he can continue, “ _please_.”

And if that isn’t a moment of triumph, Eduardo doesn’t know what is. Mark, Mark, who thinks social niceties pointless if he ever bothers to reflect upon them; who walks through held-open doors without a thank-you like he just expects it to happen for him; who thinks politeness is for people who have something to hide, Mark is saying _please_.

I want to give you _everything_ , Eduardo thinks, but what he says is , “You have to _wait_ ,” and what is so breathtakingly dizzyingly amazing is that Mark does, he does; he could push Eduardo away in a second and finish himself off, but instead he leaves his hands clenched in his sheets and pushes into Eduardo’s touch. His eyes are fixed on Eduardo, hot and intent, and being under that gaze is like burning from the sun; Eduardo is used to a tenth part of Mark’s full attention, maybe half, two-thirds if Mark is drunk and there is no computer near him and Eduardo has done something especially astounding, and to have the full weight of it crashing down upon him like this—

Eduardo buries his face between Mark’s thighs to escape that look. Any more of it and he might helplessly blurt out everything last thing he’s thought and tried to keep to himself, and that would be disastrous.

Mark may be the one with the clear oral fixation, but Eduardo loves sucking Mark’s cock. He loves the weight of it, the taste of it, the skin-hot smell of it; he loves the way Mark sounds as if he’s breaking into a thousand shards when Eduardo swallows around him. He loves the desperate bucking of Mark’s hips, all contained force, the trembling in his thighs; the way he chokes out Eduardo’s name like a plea.

He breaks Mark apart with his mouth and his shaking hands, wears him down until he’s only gasps and moans and need and aching want, and then he digs his fingers into Mark’s hips and swallows down his cock, so damn hungry for it. When Mark comes, he is all human feeling, a body that is, for once, not overshadowed by his brain. Eduardo swallows, and pulls away and wipes his mouth.

Seeing Mark’s shell-shocked face and bitten mouth, it only takes Eduardo three strokes of his own cock before he comes, knees threatening to buckle and send him right on top of Mark. He collapses gently on the bed next to him instead, and relaxes when Mark automatically turns into his side.

“Okay,” Mark says at length. His breath still sounds as shaky as if he’s been running a marathon. “That was different.”

Eduardo just covers his face and laughs a little, ignoring the edge in the sound and knowing Mark will never even hear it. “Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t hear you complaining, though.”

“I don’t believe you heard me complain just now, either,” Mark retorts, and pushes Eduardo around bodily until he’s been arranged in a position that is apparently comfortable enough for Mark to lay on him.

Eduardo threads his fingers into Mark’s hair, and isn’t really all that surprised when it only takes a few minutes for Mark to fall asleep. He can feel Mark’s heartbeat. When asleep, Mark curls into Eduardo as if searching for something, fingers twitching until they meet Eduardo’s wrist and clutch firmly, and Eduardo lies there and wonders if this is the answer. For all that Mark is the most astoundingly brilliant person Eduardo has ever known, he’s also startlingly lost when it comes to people, and relationships, and just plain feelings. Maybe this is the Mark that’s real, only you have to strip him down, wear the walls away, shake him up before you can even get there. Mark, like this, seems to know what he wants, and that is to shove his ridiculous hair into Eduardo’s mouth and throw a leg over Eduardo’s like they’re sleeping on a cafeteria tray instead of a bed.

Maybe—maybe it’ll only take time. Maybe if Eduardo’s patient, Mark’s wonderful frightening ridiculous brain will catch up with the rest of him, and they can—they can—

“It’s okay,” Eduardo whispers into Mark’s hair, breathes into the curls. “It’s okay. I’ll wait for you.”

\--

-


End file.
